Nightbred: Lords of the Darkyn (12 page)

Sam left her suitcase on the stair and trotted down to the first-floor landing, where she inputted the code to access the secondary stairwell leading down to the tunnels.

At the blood-stocks room she found the captain of the guard supervising a group of
tresori
wearing protective shrouds and working in bucket-brigade fashion as they removed bloodstained white bags.

“What the hell happened here?” Sam asked Aldan.

“Nothing good, Lady Samantha.” He sketched a quick bow. “Someone deliberately destroyed our stocks. They used a blade to pierce the bags, let them empty out, and strewed coin on the shelves and flooring.”

Samantha peered inside the room again and saw the hundreds of pennies that had been scattered everywhere. “Why throw coins in the blood?”

Aldan looked uncomfortable. “’Tis like a thing that was done in the old days, during the
jardin
wars. A traitor would come into a stronghold and poison the blood stocks by dropping coppers into the kegs.”

“You kept
kegs
of blood?”

“During the winter season, when humans remained indoors and were harder to hunt, the cold kept it sound.” He saw her expression and quickly added, “’Twas not taken by force, my lady. We collected the blood bled from the sick by leeches hoping to heal them. Our
tresori
would also give what they could to help sustain us.”

“The only thing we have in kegs now is beer, right?” When the captain nodded, she looked back in at the mess. “I don’t get it. This isn’t the Dark Ages. We can buy all the blood we want and have it here in a few hours. So destroying it was a waste of time and perfectly good pennies.”

“Often such a thing is done to provoke, my lady.” Aldan gestured for her to follow him, and led her out of earshot of the mortals. “It is not the act but the doing of it that harms. Lord Alenfar is as feared as he is respected. For an enemy to successfully elude detection and the guards to infiltrate his household and make worthless that which sustains it . . .”

She stared at him. “You’re saying they did this to make Lucan look bad?”

“Not bad. Weak,” Aldan said. “Or perhaps unworthy of rule.”

This on the same night Lucan had driven off the only son of another, highly dangerous Kyn lord, leered over a girl he’d always treated with affection, and nearly pushed Sam, his life companion, into shooting him. “You may be right, Captain. What is the general procedure when something like this happens?”

“We must make it known to the garrison,” he said. “They are the first line of defense. Our mortal allies should also be advised. For that, I would call on Mr. Burke.”

“All right. I’ll head upstairs and talk to him. If you would, call Lady Jayr and ask if she can spare some of her blood stores. Send one of the men to Orlando to pick it up.”

He bowed. “As you say, my lady.” When he straightened, he drew the short sheath containing his
sgian dubh
from his boot. “I would ask you to ease my mind and carry this.” He offered it to her. “Pistols require bullets,” he explained. “A blade does not.”

Sam curled her fingers around the Celtic knots carved into the stag-horn handle, and drew out the blade. It had been honed to razor sharpness, and forged from folded bands of copper and steel, which would make it effective against mortal or Kyn. “Thank you, Aldan.”

“My lady.” He nodded and went back to the cleanup.

Sam resheathed the small dagger and tucked it into her own boot before she headed for the lift, which she took to the first floor. As soon as the doors opened, music blasted in her face and red lights danced before her eyes. She wove through the milling patrons, wishing as she did that she could pull a giant plug and shut the whole place down.

Burke’s office adjoined Lucan’s, but she found it empty. Then she heard a low moaning sound on the other side of the door between the two, and kicked it open.

The love of her immortal life sat in his custom-made executive chair. On his lap sat a pretty twentysomething with a killer tan, a tiny black dress, a white silk bandeau around a messy beehive of raven hair.

Lucan lifted his face and had the incredible balls to look relieved. “Samantha.” The girl slid to the floor with another low moan as he stood. “You are—”

“Pissed off.” She went to the girl and helped her up. “Look at me.” After she checked her pupils, Sam removed the bandeau, folded it over, and pressed it against her throat. “Did you have sex with her?”

“No. I had no desire to—”

“You can shut up now.” Sam shed enough scent to blot out Lucan’s, and told the girl, “Ask the doorman to get you a taxi, and take it home. Forget everything that happened here.”

“Doorman. Home. Forget.” Like a sleepwalker, the girl drifted out of the office.

Sam looked down to see she stood in the exact spot where Lucan had kissed her for the first time. Or at least she assumed she did; after he’d felt her up, he’d wiped the memory of it from her then-mortal mind.

“Our blood stores have been destroyed,” Lucan said. “I haven’t fed in three nights.”

She stared at the little bulge Aldan’s blade made in the side of her trouser leg. “I know.”

“Samantha.” He came up behind her. “Why won’t you look at me?”

He had such a beautiful, seductive voice. Even before she’d fallen in love with him, Sam had been entranced by it. He had a huge vocabulary, which he loved to use, and could converse better than anyone she’d ever known, including Herbert Burke and Ernesto Garcia, two of the most educated men she knew.

Sometimes, after they made love, Lucan would tell her stories about some of the places he’d seen during his travels, and she enjoyed that almost as much as the sex.

Burke came through from his office. “My lady.” His voice chilled a few degrees when he added, “My lord.”

Sam made herself look at the lying bastard she loved. “All right, start talking.”

“Herbert.” Lucan watched Samantha’s face. “Tell my
sygkenis
what I intended to do when I left the stronghold tonight, and what time I departed.”

My lady.

“You left at seven so you might intercept the man who sent flowers to her office,” Burke said stiffly. “I believe you also intended to kill him.”

“That is the last thing I remember,” Lucan said. “When I came back to consciousness, it was midnight and I was in Palm Beach. My Ferrari had been driven into the sand and left to sink in it, hardly something I would do to my favorite vehicle. But I could not remember driving there or anything that may have occurred after I left the stronghold.”

“That’s convenient.” She should have been angry with his bullshit excuse, but it added another piece to the puzzle. “So you’re suffering from amnesia.”

“I haven’t forgotten a thing. What I lost was time.” He stretched out the fingers of one hand. “Five hours, gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

Something about his voice.
It had started to chew on her nerves, this feeling.
About his words. About what he called me.

“My lord,” Burke said tentatively, “when you awoke in the Ferrari, were you injured?”

Lucan opened his jacket. “It appears someone slashed my chest.

“Jamys did that,” Sam murmured, distracted by the two words that were bouncing back and forth in her head.
My lady.
Why were they so important?

“Samantha?”

“Quiet. Let me think.” Lucan wasn’t the sort of guy who used a lot of pet names, but when they were alone he’d call her ‘love.’ And when he was angry, he always addressed her as ‘madam’ but occasionally he’d use—

Burke cleared his throat. “My lady, perhaps I should—”

“That’s it.” She felt a fierce satisfaction as she glared at Lucan. “You called me ‘my lady.’”

“Did I?” He didn’t seem impressed. “How mysterious. I imagine that would be because you
are
my lady.”

“You didn’t say ‘my lady.’ You said it all slurred together. You made it into one word. Say it now.” When he didn’t, she stepped forward and slapped him.

“Lady Samantha.” Burke tried to get between them.

“Stay out of this, Burke.” She saw Lucan’s eyes turn to chrome. “Say the goddamn word.”

Her lover folded his arms. “Milady,” he drawled with insulting slowness. “Does that satisfy you, madam? Or would you care to hear me recite more niceties?”

“You say it with a short
i
. ‘Mih-lady.’” A strange sensation churned in her stomach, and for a moment she thought she might be sick. “Son of a bitch.”

His jaw tightened. “Oh, that I am, but what does it matter how I say anything?”

Of course, he didn’t get it. He had no memory of saying it. “That’s not how you said it on the beach. You said mee-lady. You used a long
e
.” She turned to the
tresora
. “Burke, in all the years you’ve served Lucan, have you ever heard him say ‘my lady’ like that, with a long
e
?”

“I cannot say that I have,” Burke admitted. “Perhaps if he were to imitate someone else, a peasant or a commoner, he could manage it.”

“When did I call you that, Samantha? In Palm Beach?” Lucan demanded. “Were you there when I wrecked the Ferrari?”

“Burke, whoever did this didn’t think about pronunciation. It came out of his mouth, but Lucan wasn’t the one speaking.” A laugh escaped her as her knees turned to jelly and she had to catch the edge of his desk to brace herself.

Lucan began to reach out to her and then seemed to think better of it. “Burke, clear out the club and tell the men to secure the stronghold.”

“We have visitors, my lord,” the
tresora
reminded him.

“Send them to one of my hotels,” Lucan said. “Under guard.”

When Burke left, Lucan came to stand beside her. “Samantha, obviously we have much to discuss, but I want you to know that I only made use of that girl to feed. When I returned tonight, I was so weak I could hardly walk.”

“That’s because tonight at the beach I shot you with the tranq gun. Twice.” She leaned against him. “It wasn’t you. You didn’t lose five hours, Lucan. They were stolen from you.”

His arm came up around her. “By whom?”

“The same bastard who I think took control of your mind and body.” Her mobile rang, and as she flipped it open, she looked up at him. “Someone who says mee-lady.” Into the phone she said, “Brown.”

“Sam, I need you to come in,” Captain Garcia said. “We’ve got the guy who murdered Coburn in custody.”

“What?” She straightened. “Who collared him?”

“No one. He turned himself in.”

Chapter 11

O
nce they were under way, Jamys insisted Chris go below to eat and rest while he manned the helm.

“I will wake you at dawn,” he promised.

She’d watched him handle the boat long enough to gauge his experience, which exceeded her own. He’d even done something to the rigging to make the sails more effective, which worked so well he cut off the engines as soon as they were out on the open sea.

Chris scanned the horizon for storm clouds, wide breakers, or anything that might spell trouble. “All right, but yell down if you need me. I’m a light sleeper.”

“Are you?” He seemed amused by that.

In the cabin belowdecks Chris found some clean clothes and took them into the head. The boat offered a surprisingly large shower and heated water, which she quickly put to use. The clothes proved to be several sizes too large for her petite frame, but she made do by belting and cuffing the jeans and knotting the hem of the T-shirt.

The owner liked his comfort foods, she decided when she opened the small fridge and examined the contents. Two bottles of excellent wine stood next to a whole herb-roasted chicken, bags of fresh fruit, and a container of salad greens. More meat and frozen veggies packed the little freezer section, and in the cabinet next to it she found enough canned and dry goods to keep them fed for weeks.

Not us, me,
she corrected herself, and felt a little depressed. Jamys might manage to drink a small glass of wine, but nothing else. Now that they had left the stronghold behind, there would be no more convenient supplies of blood. As a
tresora
it was her responsibility to keep her Kyn lord strong, so she’d have to feed him herself until she could buy some units. Or he could go out each night and hunt. . . .

The thought of Jamys holding another woman while he fed on her made Chris’s stomach turn.
No, I’ll steal the blood if I have to.

Although she had no appetite now, Chris forced herself to eat a few slices of chicken and some fruit and drink two full glasses of water. Fluid replenishment was one of the
tresoran
secrets to countering blood loss; Burke had taught her to drink as much water and juice as she could every day in order to keep hydrated.

Burke, who by now was probably frantic.

Chris took out her mobile and dialed the
tresora
, gnawing at the inside of her lip as she did. She couldn’t tell him much, but she could let him know she was all right.

“Christian.” Burke answered before the first ring had finished. “Thank God. Where are you?”

“I’m fine and so is Jamys.” She could lie to him and say she was at the airport or her apartment, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Have you seen Sam? Is she okay?”

“Our lady is well. Christian, the master has been attacked, and we have secured the stronghold. You must return at once.”

There would never be a good time to tell him, so it might as well be now. “I’m not coming back, Mr. Burke. I don’t serve Sam or Lucan anymore.”

“I cannot justify his actions,” Burke said slowly, “nor even explain them. But whatever the master said or did to you, he was not himself. I think it safe to say that he deeply regrets his behavior, and any harm it may have caused you.”

“It’s not because he was acting like such a jerk,” she assured him, and glanced at the upper deck. “I have other priorities now that are more important to me. I’m sorry.”

“Are you quite certain about this?” he asked gently. “I believe in a few days this ungodly situation will have sorted itself out, and all will return to normal. I would not trouble you about it, but you have worked so tirelessly for your position. It seems a pity that all that effort should go to waste.”

“I know what I’m doing, I promise.” She took in a deep, steadying breath. “I am grateful for everything you’ve taught me. I’ll always owe you.”

“Nonsense, my dear.” He sniffed. “Wherever you go, perhaps you would take a moment now and then to drop a note to an old man, and let him know you’re well?”

“Absolutely.” She was never going to get a good-bye past the lump in her throat. “Take care, Mr. Burke.”

“Godspeed, Miss Christian.”

She kept the tears away by tidying up the dishes and putting away the food. The subtle shift of the hull as it cruised through the calm water soothed her frazzled nerves. She’d just walked away from the only real friends and family she had, which might turn out to be the biggest mistake of her life. By revealing her orders to find the emeralds and keep them from Tremayne, she’d betrayed the council. As soon as they found out—and they always found out things like that—they’d erase her name from their list of potentials and forget she’d ever existed. With as much as she knew about the Kyn, they might even try to have her mind-wiped or killed.

Chris wandered over to the bunk in the back corner of the cabin, and lay down on the plaid coverlet. Although it was comfortable and roomy for a single, obviously the owner slept alone on the boat. She saw a row of buttons in the wall panel over her head and touched one.

From two small speakers on either side of the cabin the distinct sound of a cello colored the silence. Yo-Yo Ma, she recognized, performing Bach’s prelude from Cello Suite No. 1. It was one of her favorite classical pieces, and when she closed her eyes, she thought of the acclaimed musician in an overcoat and scarf, his talented hands clad in fingerless gloves as he played his beautiful instrument in the snow.

Whatever happened after she and Jamys found the emeralds, she would call Burke, Chris decided. She’d write to him, too, every month. It didn’t have to be a big thing, just a card or an e-mail to let him know she was okay and happy. She was going to be okay, and very happy.

She had every reason to be. Jamys cared about her, and trusted her. She’d make a new life for herself being his
tresora
. She didn’t need the council’s permission or a title or anything. Jamys was still Kyn, and if he wanted her, he’d have her. From the way he’d kissed her tonight, he definitely liked her.

Chris stared up at the ghostly reflection of her face in the mirror-polished wood ceiling.
So why do I feel so miserable?

Like father, like daughter.

What her conscience suggested made her roll over and bury her face in the pillow. She was not like Frankie Lang; she wasn’t running away from a marriage or a kid. Sam and Lucan and Burke would be fine without her. They had a stronghold filled with devoted humans and immortal warriors, allies in Orlando and Atlanta, and more money than God. Once they got over the name-calling thing, they’d have each other.

No, she wasn’t like Frankie at all.

Chris had just turned thirteen a few days before her constantly battling parents had had a huge fight over money. The next morning Adele left to go shopping, and Frankie had picked up his board, kissed Chris on the top of her head, and took off.

“See you later, baby,” he called as he walked out to his Jeep.

Chris never saw him again.

Once Frankie had abandoned them, he’d stopped long enough to clean out what was left in the bank account, leaving Adele with nothing. Despite this, Adele refused to get a job, a divorce, or otherwise deal with reality. She repeatedly told her daughter that they would simply wait until Frankie came to his senses and returned home to take care of her and their daughter.

When her checks had begun bouncing and the credit cards stopped working, Adele had been furious. She had spent weeks on the phone demanding more time, more credit, and getting neither. Adele’s Chrysler disappeared in the middle of the night; in the process of filing a police report she learned it had been repossessed. As their food dwindled and the collection notices mounted, she remained in denial, sending Chris off to school each day with the promise that everything would be fine.

The bank began calling about the imminent foreclosure proceedings; Adele refused to speak to the loan officer up until the morning two sheriff’s deputies arrived to evict them from the property.

Some neighbors had first stared through their windows at them, and then closed their blinds so they wouldn’t have to watch.

One of the deputies had been kind enough to offer them a ride to a local shelter for homeless families, where Adele sat in a dead silence as Chris filled out the intake forms. The shelter manager told them they could stay for a week to give Adele time to find a job or someone who could take them in. Adele had said nothing, and moved like a sleepwalker until the manager took them to the dining room to have a meal.

The sight of the tray Chris had fixed for her seemed to rouse Adele from her stupor. “What is this?”

“I don’t know.” Chris, who’d been living on canned food for weeks, sat down beside her and started eating. “It’s not bad. Some kind of stew, I think.”

“This is garbage.” Adele had slapped the fork out of her hand. “We don’t eat garbage.” When the shelter manager came over to speak to her, Adele threw the tray of food at her before dragging Chris up by her arm. “We are going home, Christi. Right now.”

Her arm throbbed as her mother’s thin fingers dug into her skin.

“Mom, please, calm down.” Chris saw flashing red and blue lights coming down the road, knew instinctively the police were coming for them, and tried to dig in her heels. “Let’s go back inside. You don’t have to eat anything. We could just rest for a while.”

“We don’t belong here,” Adele said, her voice as hard as her grip. “We’re going home.”

The cops reached the end of the driveway before they did, and blocked it with their squad car.

“Ma’am?” One of the cops got out and directed his flashlight at Adele’s face. “We got a call from the shelter that there was some trouble inside. You and your girl okay?”

Adele looked down her nose at him. “Those people tried to feed my daughter garbage. You should go and arrest them at once.”

“Calm down, ma’am.” The cop gave Chris an assessing look. “Everything’s going to be fine now, honey. Don’t be scared.”

Her mother yanked on Chris’s arm and hauled her around the cop car. When the officer followed and called for her to stop, Adele broke into a run, dragging Chris alongside her. She tried to keep up, but something caught her foot and sent her sprawling.

“Easy, sweetheart.” One of the cops helped her up.

“Please don’t hurt my mom,” she begged him as Adele began screaming and pummeling the other officer. “She’s just really upset.”

“It’s okay,” the cop told Chris as his partner handcuffed her mother and hustled her into the back of the squad car. “Your mom needs some help, so we’re going to take her to a hospital.”

She saw the shelter manager hovering a few feet away with a plump, white-haired lady in a blue wool coat. “Can I go, too?”

“No, but there’s a safe place downtown where you can stay until she’s better,” he assured her. He beckoned to the woman in the wool coat. “This is a friend of mine named Miss Audrey. She’s going to give you a ride there.”

Miss Audrey came over and bent down, putting her face too close. “What’s your name, young lady?” When she didn’t reply, her smile became a tight line. “Answer me.”

“Christi.”

Miss Audrey straightened. “Very good.” She marched Chris over to another police car, but when she shoved her into the back of it, the seat vanished and four marble walls shot up around her, closing her into an airless tomb.

Chris scrambled to her feet and beat her fists against the cold stone. “This isn’t real. This didn’t happen to me. Let me out of here.”

Her shadow doubled, and Chris spun around to see the towering figure of a man in a monk’s robe. For a moment she thought it was Lucan, until he extended the torch he held, and she saw the network of scars covering his fingers and hand.

“Who are you?”

I was the maker of the scroll, and the keeper of the cross. It was I who washed it in my blood. You and your mortal family were my army, my guardians, each sworn to protect the secrets of eternity. Now you number but two. You will not fail me as your sister did.

The smell of burning metal was making her stomach clench. “This is just a dream, and I don’t have any sisters, you asshole.”

You have the loyalty to protect the mortal world from eternal damnation. But do you have the conviction to do what needs be done?

He talked like one of the Kyn, Chris thought, but he was dressed like a Brethren. “Are you Hollander? The guy who stole the emeralds?”

The monk began to laugh, a deep and frightening sound that bounced around the inside of the tomb, each echo growing louder until Chris pressed her hands over her ears and called out for the only hope she had left.

“Jamys.”

* * *

The sky had softened from black to deepest blue by the time Jamys guided the sailboat into Biscayne Bay. Other vessels of various sizes sat anchored in a vast web of light and shadow cast by the brightly lit condominiums and hotels crowding the shoreline. One mortal who had risen early glanced up from the bobber on his fishing line and raised a hand in silent greeting as Jamys passed.

He returned the wave and then studied the assortment of piers, boathouses, and landings jutting out from the bay’s edge. Chris had said they might make use of one of the public docks, but he would need to consult a more detailed map to locate them. He turned the boat back into the wind, dropped the headsail, and backwinded the mainsail. As the boat slowed to a near stop, he secured the rigging and dropped anchor.

Chris still slept below, and it took all his resolve not to go down to join her. After sharing a kiss with her, however, all he could think about was stealing another, and another. He suspected he could kiss her for days and never grow weary of it.

His present dilemma was that he wanted more than kisses from her. Much more.

Jamys checked the horizon again, where the coming dawn had pinked the edges of the clouds. They would have to secure a vehicle to use whenever they were on land, he decided, or perhaps hire—

Jamys.

Chris’s voice called to him with such power and terror that for an instant he stood frozen. Only when he had pulled the door belowdecks from its hinges and jumped down into the cabin did he feel the echo of it through his thoughts. She had not called to him, as he could plainly see her in the cabin’s only bunk, her body still. The only sound he heard came from the soft rhythm of her breathing.